A suffocating silence swallowed everything.
Callan blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his vision to the blackness around him, but there was no light—none at all. It was as if even his own body had vanished into the dark. He reached out, grasping nothing but the void. A cold sweat broke across his brow.
"Ren?" he called out, his voice sounding eerily distant—as if it didn't belong to him.
No answer.
Panic scratched at the edges of his mind, but he forced it down. He needed to think. The last thing he remembered was the vortex of shadows in the ruin… and the voice. That ancient voice, promising annihilation.
He clenched his fists. No. He wasn't going to be swallowed by the dark. Not again.
A faint pulse—like a heartbeat—reverberated through the emptiness. Slow and heavy. The ground beneath his feet returned suddenly, solid and cold, as if reality was stitching itself back together.
Then came the whispers.
Dozens of them. Hundreds. Voices crawling across the air like insects, murmuring unintelligible things in a language that stirred unease in Callan's blood. They slithered into his ears, not loud, but persistent. The more he listened, the more they began to make sense—fragmented phrases, broken memories.
"General of ash…"
"Fallen flame…"
"Bound… yet unbroken…"
Callan gritted his teeth. "Shut up," he growled.
The whispers stopped instantly. The silence that followed was worse.
Then the space around him began to shift.
Dim light slowly emerged, revealing a barren, desolate landscape—twisted black trees, shattered stone monoliths, and a sky choked with swirling gray clouds. The air was thick and still, as if even the wind refused to enter.
He was standing on a path of charred bones and scorched earth. Behind him, there was nothing. Ahead of him, a solitary figure approached, its form hazy in the dark mist.
Callan drew his sword instinctively.
As the figure neared, the haze lifted.
It was a man. Or what had once been a man.
He wore ancient, tattered robes, and his skin looked like cracked obsidian, glowing faintly from within. His eyes burned with a pale blue fire, and his presence twisted the very air.
"You do not belong here," the figure said, voice like grinding stone.
Callan lifted his chin. "Neither do you."
The creature tilted its head, amused. "You are the one they call the Ashen General… or what remains of him. You reek of broken destiny."
"What is this place?" Callan demanded.
"The Realm of the Forgotten," the creature replied. "A prison for those cast aside by fate. A graveyard for powers too old and dangerous for the waking world. And yet… you found your way here."
Callan narrowed his eyes. "I didn't come here by choice."
"No," the being mused. "But choice is a luxury rarely afforded to those with blood-stained legacies."
Callan took a step forward. "Where is my friend?"
"You mean the boy?" the being said, looking off to the side. "He is not with you. Each who enters faces their own path… their own judgment. This realm shows you what you cannot run from."
"And what's that?" Callan asked.
The world shifted again.
Suddenly, he was no longer on the scorched path. He stood in a great hall of obsidian pillars. Firelight flickered against polished stone. And before him, a throne—a familiar one.
It was his throne.
The Throne of the Demon General.
Seated upon it was… himself.
But not the man he was now. It was the Callan of the past—the warlord, the slayer, the merciless demon in human skin. His eyes gleamed with fury and pride, and the armor he wore dripped with blood not yet dried.
The real Callan flinched.
"You remember this, don't you?" the ghostly figure beside him said.
The throne-room Callan rose to his feet. "Weak," he sneered. "You've become weak."
Callan's hand tightened around his sword. "You're not real."
"Don't lie to yourself," the doppelgänger said, descending the steps of the throne. "You miss it. The power. The fear in their eyes. The way the world trembled beneath your feet."
"I was a monster," Callan snapped.
"You were free," the doppelgänger corrected. "You answered to no one. And now? You play hero in a world that will never accept you. You protect them, but they will never trust you. Never love you. You know I'm right."
The words hit too close.
Callan's grip faltered.
"That's enough," he whispered.
"Look at you!" the other Callan roared. "You think redemption is real? That you can escape what you are? You're deluding yourself. Sooner or later, they'll turn on you. And when they do, you'll come crawling back to me."
"No," Callan said, raising his sword. "I'll never become you again."
The phantom smirked. "Then come prove it."
The two Callans clashed in an instant.
Steel screamed against steel. Fire burst around them. The real Callan fought with all his might, but the reflection of his past was stronger, faster—feral. Every blow was laced with fury and regret.
"You can't kill what you are!" the phantom snarled, slashing across Callan's shoulder.
Callan staggered, pain flaring. The sword in his hand flickered, weakened.
"You're a killer," the doppelgänger hissed. "Not a savior. You always were."
Callan closed his eyes, blood dripping down his face.
Maybe he was right. Maybe this was who he truly was. The Demon General, the butcher of the Eastern Campaign. The man who once laughed in the flames of a burning village.
But then another voice came.
Not his own. Not the whispering ones.
Ren's voice.
"I trust you."
That memory. The way Ren had looked at him when no one else would. When even Callan had doubted himself.
And another voice.
Elya—the healer who had once tended to him after the rebellion.
"You're not who you were. That means something."
Callan's eyes snapped open.
He wasn't fighting to prove he wasn't a demon. He was fighting because people still believed in him. He had made a choice. And even if the world turned its back on him again, that choice was his to make.
He roared and surged forward.
Steel met steel again—but this time, the blade of the phantom cracked.
"You're part of me," Callan shouted, pushing forward, "but you don't control me anymore!"
With a final strike, he shattered the doppelgänger's sword and drove his own blade into the echo of his past.
The phantom screamed—louder than sound—then dissolved into ash.
The throne room vanished.
The whispers fell silent.
Callan collapsed to one knee, gasping for breath, surrounded once more by the eerie silence of the Realm of the Forgotten.
The dark-robed figure returned, watching him impassively.
"You rejected your truth," it said.
Callan slowly stood. "No. I accepted it. But I'm more than what I was."
The figure gave a slow nod. "Then perhaps… you are worthy after all."
The world shifted again.
Light pierced the sky above. The ground shook. The darkness around Callan peeled away like shedding skin.
And then—
He woke up.
On cold stone. In the ruins.
Ren was beside him, shaking his shoulder. "Callan! Are you alright?"
Callan sat up, disoriented. The ruins looked the same, but… something had changed. The symbols on the walls had faded. The oppressive air had lifted.
"I'm okay," he rasped. "I think… I passed a trial."
Ren helped him up, his face filled with concern. "I had my own trial. I saw my brother again. It was… hard. But I came out of it stronger."
Callan looked toward the altar. Whatever power had been there was dormant again. But only barely.
"We've only seen a glimpse," he said. "Something deeper sleeps here."
Ren nodded grimly. "And it won't stay asleep forever."
As they exited the ruins, the sun was rising.
And with it, so was a new part of Callan's journey.
One where the enemy wasn't just demons or soldiers… but the very past he carried inside him.